


How We Were Supposed to Meet

by Laiquilasse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Dying Sherlock Holmes, Hospitalization, Hospitals, M/M, Major Illness, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-04-14 23:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: Sherlock is terminally ill. Admitting himself into hospital, to allow his family time off from caring for him, he meets one doctor who doesn't treat him as though he is fragile, and doesn't look at him with pity.If only they could meet under better circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BUCKLE IN, this is going to be a sad one. Tagging now for MCD, so consider yourselves warned. Enjoy!

Sherlock wanted to sleep.

He wanted to sleep all the time, now. It was one of his defining characteristics. Where before, he had gone days without, now he had the urge to close his eyes all the time. The doctors said that was normal, and he should rest and sleep as much as his body needed. Sherlock, on the other hand, was afraid that one day he would fall asleep and not wake up again.

Which, of course, he would.

One day soon.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jolted, realising he’d been drifting off, leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder. That was in itself bizarre – Mycroft would never have tolerated such casual touch and affection before. Now, he seemed to welcome it.

“Take your time, Sherlock,” he said. There were lilac and black bags under his eyes.

The nurse smiled pleasantly at them both. “Sherlock, do you want to come through so we can weigh you and so on?”

Sherlock nodded, and got to his feet, hearing the blood rush in his head as he got upright.

“Can you manage, or –”

“I can manage,” he said firmly. He could well have made use of a wheelchair, but, like sleeping, Sherlock was convinced that once he was in it, he would never get out. It didn’t matter that aids were there to help him. He would rather suffer.

It made him feel alive.

He followed the nurse around the corner to a seat built onto some weighing scales. He perched on it, and watched the woman write the numbers down, before she took out a blood pressure cuff.

“Just confirm your name and age for me, sweetheart,” she said as the cuff began to tighten around Sherlock’s skeletal arm.

“Sherlock Holmes, and – and nineteen,” he said, wincing as the cuff pinched. It was built for people with more flesh on their bones than him. “Still.”

“Oh, yes,” she said cheerfully, “birthday in a couple of weeks. Have you got anything planned?”

Sherlock wondered if he should tell her about his mother’s hysterics over what was certain to be his last birthday, and how he had insisted no one buy him presents because of the waste, and how his suggestion that everyone go on holiday for a few days had been quashed by doctors who didn’t want someone undergoing palliative care to be too far away from a hospital.

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

The nurse nodded, and took the cuff from him. “Right, that’s all done. If you go through the doors, your doctor will see you now.”

Sherlock hummed a note of thanks, and carefully got up. His knees clicked, but he ignored them. All his joints ached, now. His skin hurt if you brushed against it in the wrong direction, and showering made him cry. His eyes throbbed under bright lights, and even something as simple as sitting on the toilet became an order, as sitting on the plastic seat hurt his thighs, and left bruises.

Sherlock had said to Mycroft that he might be able to tolerate dying, if only the run-up wasn’t so painful.

He didn’t bother knocking, just went straight into the doctor’s room, and sat in the padded chair beside the desk without stopping to say hello.

“Ah, you must be Sherlock,” a warm voice came from the desk.

“Yes,” Sherlock caught his breath back, and raised his eyes.

A young man with blondish-brown hair and a faded suntan smiled back at him. He wore scrubs and a white coat, and he was fiddling with a pen.

“I’m John,” the doctor said. “I’m one of the doctors here.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“So, your stats all look good,” John glanced at the screen in front of him. “You’re here for a respite assessment, is that right?”

“My parents need a week where they aren’t looking after me,” Sherlock said. “They disagree, but I’m insisting.”

“That’s very… understanding of you.”

“They’ve had enough to deal with. And the rate things are going… they need a week whilst they can still have one.” Sherlock wanted to fold his arms, but also wanted to fall asleep on the examination bed opposite. It looked so comfortable.

John made a note. “So, what respite involves is you spending a week here with us in Pal, and basically you can treat us like a hotel, within reason. Meals, going outside, TV, books, whatever, you can ask for it, and someone will sort it out. The only thing we can do is take you off-site.”

“Not even in an ambulance?”

“Sorry,” John shook his head. “But this isn’t a prison, and you’ve got the run of the place. You get a nurse or trainee doctor to yourself, and it’s up to you how you use that relationship. Some patients like the professional distance, others like a shoulder to cry on. So to speak.”

Sherlock blinked, slowly. “You’re a trainee, aren’t you?”

John nodded. “Third year, yes. How did you guess?”

“Your voice lacked the usual undercurrent of resentment with discussing trainees.”

The doctor laughed. “You got me. So, do you have any questions?”

Sherlock licked his chapped lower lip. “If my condition… deteriorates… would you admit me against my will?”

“I wouldn’t personally,” John said. “But a senior doctor might, if we thought it was in your best interests. We’ve got a duty to monitor you, and make sure you’re well whilst you’re here, just as when we check how you are when you come for appointments or have home visits.”

Sherlock nodded. He expected it, but at this stage there was little to argue about. “I… would like to die at home. Given the choice.”

John’s face managed to look understanding, without pitying. It was a feat Sherlock had seen few doctors manage. “I’ll bear that in mind, should the discussion arise with the team.”

Sherlock nodded, again.

“Right, now, your prescription is staying the same,” John pressed ‘print’, “and, as usual, I’m expected to tell you to eat what you want, plenty of fluids and as much sleep as you like, but you know all of that already. You’ve lost two pounds, so I really need you to drink one of those meal-replacement drinks at least once a day. That’s on top of your normal food, not instead of. Ok?” John held the prescription out. At the bottom was his full name. _Dr John H Watson_.

Sherlock took the paper. The list of drugs on it was immense. Everything he took was a desperate aid to the body that so wanted to give up.

He thanked the man, shook his hand, and walked slowly back to their waiting area. He paused to add some gel to his hands on the way. He washed his hands so much that the skin on his knuckles was dry and cracked. Sometimes, it bled. And that was what the latex gloves had to come out, and what might have been a simple mopping up procedure became dramatic and distressing.

Mycroft stood as he came over. “Well?”

“Coming in on Monday morning,” Sherlock said, suppressing a yawn. “Will you bring me?”

“Yes, if you’d rather Mummy didn’t come.”

“She’ll never leave, if she comes in.”

Mycroft slowed his walking pace so he was at Sherlock’s side. “Who did you see?”

“Watson,” Sherlock handed his prescription over. “New. Trainee, actually. But… competent.”

Mycroft hummed, and pocketed the paper. He would go to the pharmacy for Sherlock, later. “Good. As long as you get along with them, that’s good.”

They were picked up by the private car when they got outside. Mycroft wrote an email on his phone, and Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately.

The last thing he thought of, before he closed his eyes, was the lack of pity in John Watson’s voice. If he had to be in the care of doctors, he would always choose one who didn’t treat him as though his circumstance was a tragedy.

Sherlock was going to die.

He didn’t need to be reminded of that every time he looked into a stranger’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback on Ch1! This is from John's POV.

John read Sherlock’s file on the morning the young man was coming in for respite care. It made for sad reading. Sherlock’s diagnosis had come too late for drugs to prolong his life for more than a few months. All they could really do now was make him comfortable.

John was used to death. You had to be, to be in his line of work. But palliative care was something he didn’t think he’d ever really get his head around. Almost all of the patients were adamant that they didn’t want treating as though they were dying, even though they were. Sherlock hadn’t appeared to be any different at his assessment.

It pained John that he was so young. Sherlock was twenty, soon. Only two years younger than John. Too young to die, by anyone’s standards.

He waited by the doors, for Sherlock to come in.

Sherlock didn’t walk in, this time. He was sitting in a wheelchair and looking extremely pissed-off about it.

“I’m here, now,” he snapped at his brother, who was pushing. “Let me out, Mycroft.”

“You’re here for a rest,” his brother chided.

“I’m here to give _you_ a rest,” Sherlock fumbled for the brake, and snapped it on, so the wheelchair tipped violently. “Let me out.”

“If we could get Sherlock onto the ward without damaging him, that’d be great,” John said, falsely cheery. He caught the chair, and undid the brake and unclipped Sherlock’s lap-belt. He offered an arm.

Sherlock ignored it, and staggered upright using the arms of the wheelchair for assistance. He was tall, and skinny, though there was no way to tell how much of his thinness was from illness, and how much was natural. He looked less tired than the last time John saw him, though, which was positive.

“Lovely,” John said, smiling. “You’re in Room 21, Sherlock, do you have a bag or anything?”

“It’s in the car,” Mycroft answered for Sherlock, whose hand had found the wall to support himself. “I’ll fetch it in a moment.”

“Great. This way, then?” John led the way, and Sherlock and Mycroft followed. Sherlock’s eyes flicked from the nurses in the station to the Wash Your Hands posters on the walls, and the squeaky lino that had stickers on it directing people to the different areas of the ward.

John unlocked the door to the private room. It was meant to be as friendly as possible. The floor was laminate wood, the bed was a real bed, though adjustable like a regular hospital trolley. There was a duvet, and matching curtains, and a chest of drawers for the patient’s things. Even the en suite bathroom was kept as free from being clinical as possible.

Sherlock walked in, and looked around for a moment, before sitting down on the bed. “This is different.”

“We try to make it not feel quite so hospital-y,” John smiled. “I don’t think they do a bad job.”

Sherlock nodded, patting his hair down at the back of his head.

Mycroft brushed the top of the drawers, as if checking for dust. Then looked at John. “Doctor Watson, I wonder if we might have a water jug?”

“Sure, I’ll just go and ask for one.” John excused himself. He went out to the nurses’ station, and asked for water and a few biscuits for Sherlock’s room. He went back again, and was about to open the door, when he stopped to listen.

“…brother mine, you will shut this down immediately.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“I will find you another doctor.”

“You will not.”

“Then wind your neck in, Sherlock. You can’t do this.”

“I’m not going to do anything.”

“Doctor Watson isn’t about to throw his career away.”

John knocked, and went back inside.

Guilty faces looked around at him.

John pretended not to notice. “Now, Sherlock, did you want to get settled? If Mycroft brings your bag up, you can make this place feel a bit nicer?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirked at his brother. “Go on, brother dear, fetch.”

Mycroft’s nostrils flared, and his eyes flicked to John before he nodded, and went out of the room.

He was gone for about ten seconds before Sherlock exhaled, and flopped sideways onto the pillows. His arms were trembling.

John went over to him quickly. “Sherlock, why didn’t you lie down if you needed to?” He picked up Sherlock’s legs, noting how they were mostly bone, and swung them onto the bed before pulling his shoes off.

Sherlock just gave a shaky, breathy laugh.

“…you don’t want him to know?”

The laugh stopped.

“Sherlock, you can’t make yourself worse just to protect your brother’s feelings in the short-term.” John propped him up on the pillows, and watched a bit of colour come back into his cheeks. “Ok? Any pain?”

“Only in my elbows and knees. And that’s pretty much a constant, now,” Sherlock said. He rolled his shoulders back against the bed, which was adjusted upright.

“Do you want painkillers?”

“No, they make me drowsy. I want a cigarette,” Sherlock shrugged. “But you’re not going to let me, are you?”

John smiled at him. “Well, that depends. Technically, your doctor can’t take you outside for a smoke, but you are allowed out for free time whenever you like.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“And, like I said, this isn’t a prison. You can do what you want in your free time, and I can’t confiscate your possessions.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Doctor Watson.”

“John,” John corrected him. “Since I’m your key provider, let’s drop the formalities, Mr Holmes.”

They grinned at each other, and, despite himself, John felt something awkward slip around the region of his stomach.

Mycroft opened the door, dragging a wheelie case behind him. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.

“He’s just having a minute,” John took the case, and set it atop the chest of drawers. Sherlock could open it in his own time. “Shall I leave you two alone?”

 

*

 

John was just completing some paperwork at the nurses’ station, when Mycroft Holmes coughed to get his attention.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft checked his cuffs. “I’ve explained to Sherlock that I’m taking Mummy away for a few days. Entirely within mobile service, and he or you can call at any time, and we shall come straight away.”

“Thank you,” John nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. His stats look good, and he’s stable.”

“He’s trying too hard,” Mycroft said. “He’s trying to be well, to appear well, to try and fool us. Well, he isn’t fooling me. I’ve told him as much. He is allowed to show weakness. Weakness has ended him up here.”

“There’s nothing weak about a young man who’s dying admitting himself into hospital,” John said.

Mycroft clicked his tongue. “I meant the circumstance of him contracting… his illness.”

“I don’t think that has any bearing on what Sherlock deserves, or how he acts,” John said calmly. “Or, indeed, how I, or any medical staff shall treat him. He’s a million times braver than I ever could be, and it’s my privilege to look after him.”

John could have sworn that the ghost of a smile crossed Mycroft Holmes’ lips. The man nodded. “I’ll see you a week today, Doctor Watson.”

“Mr Holmes.” John watched the man go, before gathering his things and going into Sherlock’s room.

The room was dimmed by the drawn curtains, and Sherlock was sitting up in bed tapping at an ipad. The text on the screen was large.

“Do you need reading glasses?” John asked, before he could help himself.

“I’m supposed to,” Sherlock said, glancing up. “But they hurt my face, and ears. It’s easier to just enlarge the text.”

“Thank god for technology,” John said. He set his papers down, and took a thermometer out of his pocket, applying a disposable cap to the end. “Ear, please?”

Sherlock tilted his head, and John took his temperature, which was perfect.

“Mycroft spoke to you?”

“Only to say goodbye. He’s taking your mother away, I understand?” John clipped a plastic peg onto Sherlock’s finger. His skin was a little dry. John made a mental note to check his fluid intake.

“Yes, the last holiday before my funeral,” Sherlock shrugged. The clip beeped, and John took it away.

“Didn’t you fancy going with them?”

“Not allowed. And besides, Mummy is terrible to be around, at the moment. Weeping and clinging, and so forth. Mycroft isn’t much better. If he’s not being emotional, he’s being angry.”

“Angry?”

“He blames me for bringing this on myself,” Sherlock flexed his arms, as if checking the pale skin emerging from his t-shirt. “He’s not wrong, but I don’t see what good it does to keep harping on about it.”

“Dwelling and blame don’t help anyone, and stress is the last thing anyone needs,” John said. He put a hand to Sherlock’s arm, and gently pushed it down to the bed, so the young man wasn’t holding his arms in the are unnecessarily. He felt cold. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You’ve read my file.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Sherlock looked at him, and, for an instant, John thought he could see a little sparkle of interest. “Maybe tomorrow. I’m tired.”

“Alright. Get some sleep. Don’t dick around on your ipad all night, you’ll strain your eyes.”

“Oh, god forbid,” Sherlock drawled, but he turned the brightness down a little on the screen. “Breakfast at eight, please.”

“Tea, or coffee?”

“Coffee, black, two sugars.”

John pulled a face. “You’re a nightmare.”

“I’m just breaking you in gently, John.” Sherlock winked.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the first day in bed, reading through cold cases Lestrade emailed to him, and sleeping on and off. John Watson came in every hour to do his stats, and to exchange a bit of small-talk. Sherlock made it clear that he wasn’t in the mood for anything more. The doctor was happy, and didn’t push him. He made Sherlock feel safe, which made him feel worried, too. He didn’t want to make friends with this doctor. What would be the point?

He slept fitfully that night, waking at 2am to press his call button and ask for his painkillers to be turned up.

“I could do it myself if you let me,” he said into the pillow.

“Sorry, dear,” the nurse said. “You can’t control pain relief if you’ve ever had an opiate addiction.” She inserted a key into the machine and turned the levels up. “Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock snorted, but relaxed as the drug entered his system.

It was only later that he wondered which doctor had ordered that rule. Surely not Doctor Watson…

Sherlock told himself he didn’t care.

 

*

 

John stopped in Sherlock’s doorway the day after, and beamed at the sight of the Sherlock already up, and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Good morning!”

“Hello,” Sherlock said, pulling a deep blue sweatshirt over his head.

“You’re dressed, that’s good,” John went over to him, and gave him a good looking-at. Sherlock was pale and thin as usual, but his eyes were brighter. They were a sort of blue-green that would have been unnerving on anyone else’s face, but on Sherlock they seemed made for him. “You… you sleep alright?”

“Pressed my buzzer for some morphine in the small hours…” Sherlock pushed himself off the bed, and smirked slightly as he went from looking up at John to looking down at him. “But I think I’ll be fine for a few hours without, today.”

“That’s great,” John said. He was extremely used to looking up “So… did you have a plan for today? Or any –”

“I’ll settle for a walk outside, for now,” Sherlock pulled his jumper down. “If you’re still willing to escort me?”

“Of course,” John smiled. “Keeping you active and happy is priority one.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Is it cold out?”

“Not really, but I’d keep your sweatshirt on,” John checked the time. “The therapy classes have finished in the gardens, now. Shall we?”

Sherlock nodded, and started to walk leaning over, hanging onto the bedframe. His knuckles were white with the force on his grip. Despite his illness, he still had strength. Just not steadiness. That was from the disturbances in his inner ears – his balance would never improve, now.

“Would you like a cane?” John asked.

Sherlock paused. He would have to let go of the bed eventually.

“Or a wheelchair?”

“Not a chair,” Sherlock said. “Not today…”

“Or, if you like, you can hang onto my arm, for now,” John said. His voice was suddenly quite guarded. Sherlock could guess why. Doctors were meant to promote self-help and walking aids, rather that letting someone become reliant on another person. It was probably against the rules.

“For now, then,” Sherlock said.

John went to prop the door open, and came back for Sherlock. He had clearly led people before – he stood still, with his arm out ready, making no attempt to grab Sherlock’s arm and potentially throw him off-balance. He waited as Sherlock walked over, and hooked his skinny arm into John’s broader one.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nodded. John was warm, like hanging onto a radiator. He smelled warm, too, like sunlight on skin. Sherlock wondered how long he’d be able to identify smells. His sense of taste was variable at best.

“Right. Let’s take the lift. I’m way too unfit for all those stairs,” John smiled, and started to lead the way.

Sherlock opened his mouth immediately to call John out on his lie. Even through his hospital uniform the man’s strength and fitness was obvious in how he carried himself. But Sherlock realised the lie was a kindness.

And, unlike usually, he didn’t mind it.

 

*

 

The gardens were quiet when they got down to them – the hospital was built in a crescent moon shape, with a small garden and pond in the curve. There were a lot of benches, and several bird-feeders, around which were a lot of twittering birds.

Sherlock directed himself and John to a bench. He sat down rather heavily, and immediately took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Where did you get those?” John said, accusingly.

“The lady who does the tea-trolley bought them for me,” Sherlock stuck one between his lips. “She’s full of sympathy.” He lit it, and blew smoke into the wind, which was blowing in the opposite direction to John. “You don’t have to sit with me.”

“I know. I don’t mind the smell,” John shrugged. “My dad smoked. Smokes. You get used to it.”

Sherlock inhaled again, the warmth spreading into his lungs. He could almost feel his bloodstream and brain thanking him for the nicotine. It had been his first addiction. Unlikely to be cured, since it was legal, and perfectly pointless to try, now.

“Does it ease your pain?” John asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said. “This is only tobacco. But it’s…. soothing? It’s purely my brain responding happily to the drug, of course. It wouldn’t work on you.”

John nodded. “Well, I’m not about to tell you to quit.”

“No point.”

“That’s true, yes, but I’d say anything that gives you some relief is something worth sticking with,” the doctor crossed his legs. “People have been self-medicating since the dawn of time.”

“And look where that got me,” Sherlock snorted. He tapped his cigarette off against the arm of the bench.

John sighed. “You were self-mediating? Against what?”

“I was using it to forget,” Sherlock said. He stubbed the fag out. “Or… no, not forget. To… lower my thinking power.”

John still seemed interested. It was strange. “Did it work?”

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned his neck to one side, and felt the vertebrae click. “It was fine. I had it under control, and it wasn’t anticipated to become a problem.”

“But it did.”

“Because I was cut off,” Sherlock said. “Abruptly. Mycroft and my mother… attempted to keep me from getting what I needed. And when that didn’t work, they closed my bank accounts and refused to give me cash. They are both much too clever to give me chance to steal from them, so I had to find other ways of paying.”

John looked at him. “Did you put yourself in danger?”

“Oh, often.” Sherlock smiled wryly, then saw the shocked expression on John’s face. “Oh, not like _that_ ,” he said. “No, that’s far too base. Once you’ve found other highs, sex is just a distraction. Apparently…”

John relaxed, slightly. “So… what were you doing?”

“This and that.” Sherlock sniffed. He fiddled with his lighter. “I was getting what I needed at the end of it, anyway. I was careful.”

John frowned. “So… if you were being careful, how…?”

“I was being careful,” Sherlock looked into the doctor’s dark blue eyes. “ _I_ was. Other people weren’t.”

John nodded. “I see.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“It’s a waste. A waste of someone… someone like you, you’re too - ” John’s mouth snapped shut in shock at himself. “Sorry. That was unprofessional.”

“No, it’s… fine,” Sherlock looked at him, blinking some of the cloudiness away from his vision. The young doctor was blushing slightly, his ears redder than his face. He glanced at Sherlock, again.

“No, really, though. I… I see a lot of people come into hospital, in your position, and each time’s the same. Everyone dies, but it hurts to see people going before they ought. I don’t know if feeling like that ever goes away, and honestly I don’t want it to.”

Sherlock frowned. “You might do your job better if it did. Not that you’re doing a poor job now, but –”

“The moment I stop caring is the moment I know it’s all over,” John sighed. “If I don’t care… If people are just patients, and not human beings, then I’ve lost whatever it was that made me want to do this job in the first place.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “And how does that tie into being in the army?”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Your I.D.,” Sherlock said, by way of explanation. _And you’d have to be blind not to notice the military bearing, the clear sponsorship of your university fees, the careful way you hold yourself, even your haircut. Abusive father, only way out for you was university, and the only way you could afford to train as a doctor was if you took the military scholarship. You know the army because of your parents, and that gives you enough of an edge to blend in with the rich toffs you dislike, and no one is better at your job than you, but you never own it. You stay on the edge of attention, Doctor Watson, but I see you_.

John shifted on the bench. “Well. I like to think I’ll be defending those who can’t defend themselves. Those who need me.”

“By killing people.”

“I hope not.”

“But if that’s what it takes.”

“If that’s what it takes. But I hope I never have to.”

“Funny career to be in,” Sherlock winced, his pelvis aching suddenly, “if you want to avoid killing people.”

“What, the army, or medicine?” John looked at him.

“Perhaps both.”

They grinned at each other. Then Sherlock folded up, pain curling around his abdomen fiercely. He drew his knees up and hissed through his teeth.

John caught him by the shoulders. “Deep breath, Sherlock, in through your nose. Try not to tense…” he pressed a hand to Sherlock’s concave stomach. “Breathe out slowly, breathe in with your belly, really push it out if you can.” He kept his warm hand under Sherlock’s sweatshirt but above his t-shirt as Sherlock slowly untensed, and his limbs began to tremble slightly. “Ok?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, trying not to notice the wet tracks on his face. “I have scar tissue. It snags. Pulls. Can’t do anything. Side-effect.”

“Just lean this way,” John held his arms steady at the elbows. “Let your insides relax. I know it hurts. I’m not saying it doesn’t. But we can make it stop being quite as bad without even moving off this bench.”

Sherlock shut his eyes. John’s calm demeanour watching him was almost as painful as the abscesses inside him. He wished he would panic. Shout, like Myroft. Cry, like his mother. Show some emotion that wasn’t just _care_.

But he didn’t.

His hands stayed still, and his eyes stayed locked, tangible even through Sherlock’s closed eyes.

It grounded him, pulling Sherlock through his pain, back to himself.

Slowly, the agony dulled, and Sherlock felt a sweat break on his brow.

John still held his arms. Gently, but firmly. In control. So Sherlock didn’t have to be. “Better?”

“Yes. Not entirely, but…”

“You can cope until I can check you over properly?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s stand up, then.”

John tucked his arms under Sherlock, and lifted him to his feet. Sherlock staggered, but John was fixed solid on the ground, and let Sherlock fall against him before steadying him upright. “Next time, we bring a cane,” he smiled.

“Not a chance, whilst you can still catch me,” Sherlock puffed. There was a tight feeling in his chest that was, he knew, unrelated to the scar tissue pain below.

John gave a small laugh, and arranged them both so Sherlock was leaning his weight over, John’s arm around his back, without it looking awkward. “One step at a time, Mr Holmes.”

 

*

 

Once back in the room, Sherlock lay back on his bed and John wheeled in a portable ultrasound machine.

“I know it’s a regular thing for you,” he said, “but I want to just give you a quick check-over.” He started the machine up, and looked down at Sherlock. The young man was lying back, pink in the cheeks and his dark curls tousled over the pillow. He looked healthy, though thin, and John cursed himself mentally for thinking it. Sherlock wasn’t just sick, he was terminally ill, and his patient besides. “If you could lift your shirt up for me, and just shuffled your trousers down to below your hips…”

Sherlock did so, exposing a line of dark hair below, running from a slender train from his navel which John ignored. He tucked a sheet of paper towel over and into Sherlock’s jeans.

“That’s cold,” Sherlock flinched as the gel touched his skin.

“Sorry. It’ll warm up. You’re nice and warm, considering…” John moved the wand carefully. The ribbons of scars and abscesses were easy to see. Sherlock had been in pain a while before coming into hospital, and cancer had initially been suspected, until his blood tests came back. The drugs Sherlock took to prolong his life made them worse, but there was little could be done aside from regular monitoring and food with the right nutrients.

John lifted the wand. “Looks fine to me. No changes, I mean. I’ll get you some water. Oh, and…” he pulled the paper towel up, and gave Sherlock’s stomach a gentle wipe to get rid of the conducting gel. “Sorry, it’s kind of hard to clean up…”

“I can do it.” Sherlock put his hand over John’s.

They both went still.

John’s fingers were on Sherlock’s white belly, the flesh sunken, ribcage prominent against the dip. Sherlock’s touch was on John’s hand.

It was a horrible, beautiful moment.

John moved his hand away. “I’ll get you that water.”

“Thank you…” Sherlock carried on wiping the gel from himself.

John wheeled the machine out.

Sherlock waited until the door closed.

Then screwed up his face, fighting back the horrible, sick feeling of _want_ chasing through his broken, dying body.

 


	4. Chapter 4

There was a visitor in the waiting room when John turned up for work on the Thursday. He was reading through a paper file of letters and photographs, frowning hard at something that looked like a report.

John caught his eye, and gave him a small smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning, mate. You wouldn’t happen to know the visiting hours for that ward, would you?” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“The palliative centre? There aren’t any hours,” John said. “It’s by arrangement with the patient. Does someone know you’re coming?”

“Oh,” the man’s face fell, and he scrubbed at his grey hair. “No, he didn’t answer his phone. I’ll call back later, if that’s the case…”

“Who were you wanting to see?” John shifted his own file under his arm. “I could check if they want a visitor.”

“Oh, thanks. It’s Holmes.”

“Sherlock?” John blurted, without thinking.

The man brightened. “Yeah. Do you know him?”

“I’m his doctor,” John said, trying to think. “Are you a relative?”

“Just a… colleague, I suppose.” The man rolled his eyes a bit.

John frowned. “I didn’t know Sherlock had a job.”

“Well, he was never on the books officially, but he used to do me the odd favour. I arrested him a couple of times, and…” the man indicated the lanyard around his neck. “I work for the Met.”

“Is Sherlock in some sort of trouble?”

“No, no, I want his help, actually,” the policeman held the files up. “Can’t seem to get a straight answer on this one.”

John smiled. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

 

*

 

“Lestrade!” Sherlock actually smiled when John led the detective into his room. Sherlock had insisted on being given a few moments to get dressed and to make himself look presentable. John had helped him do the buttons on his shirt.

It had been a strange moment. John hadn’t felt a drop of pity for Sherlock’s shaking hands, but neither had he felt awkward seeing the young man with no top on. Sherlock needed help, and John had given it to him. It was almost a total detachment from the growing warmth of their almost-friendship. John suspected it wouldn’t be spoken about.

“Sherlock, you’re looking…” Lestrade looked him over. “Yeah.”

“Like shit?” Sherlock offered.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say that.”

“It’s true, though.” Sherlock crossed his ankles on the bed. He held a hand out. “Hand it over, then.”

Lestrade sighed, and handed the file over. Sherlock’s wrist almost gave way with the weight of it, but he managed to steer the falling papers into his lap so that it almost looked intentional.

“Two dead, no real sign of a struggle, both shot, though one seems to have had the ballistic removed somehow. The other shot with some sort of steel dart, or arrow. Nasty.”

“Mm,” Sherlock fished the photos out, and started looking at them.

John cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, leave you to it, then…”

Sherlock looked up. “You can stay.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be much use,” John forced a small laugh. “You can… detect better without your doctor lurking around, I’m sure.”

“Oh. Yes…” Sherlock looked at the photos in his lap. “I mean, I don’t mind, if you wanted to…”

“I’ll go to some paperwork of my own, and I’ll come back in a short while,” John said firmly. He looked at the detective inspector. “You can come to the desk if you need anything, or Sherlock has a buzzer.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade nodded.

“See you… in a bit,” John gathered his clipboard, and gave Sherlock an awkward nod.

Sherlock just stared at him.

John went out, and let the door rest slightly open in the catch as he moved to the wall to lean, and gather himself.

“So, what’s the story there?” he heard Lestrade ask.

“There’s no story.” Sherlock. Rude.

John smiled.

“Oh yeah? He was like a teenager with a crush. So were you.”

“Stop it.”

“Oh, touched a nerve, have I?”

“Shut up, Lestrade. Just shut up.” Sherlock’s voice cracked.

John tensed.

There was a silence. Then…

“Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Well, fucking try to. Think about where I am, and – and what that means. Doesn’t matter what anyone wants, or thinks. His job is to keep my body alive for as long as he can. That’s all he cares about…”

Lestrade’s voice softened. “You know he’s not the only one who cares.”

“He’s the only one who’s been able to admit I’ve wasted my life, but say it without pity.”

“He said you’ve wasted your life?”

“Not like that. But… in a way, yes. Don’t start getting angry, he meant it that he sympathised with the situations that have led here. I want that. The understanding.”

“I understand. Mycroft understands.”

“You both wanted to protect me from something you thought was worse than me suffering the pain of living with myself,” Sherlock said. “To you, me thinking myself into an early grave was preferable to being on drugs and being happy. And look where that’s got us all. Ironic isn’t the word.”

“You honestly think I thought so little of you? Sherlock, your brain –”

“- wanted to kill me, and now my body gets to do the honours.”

John couldn’t listen to any more. He pushed off the wall, and walked into the office, to try and do some work he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on.

 

*

 

Lestrade was still there an hour later.

John went into do Sherlock’s stats, and was amazed by the blanket of papers covering the young man’s legs. The gruesome photos were on the top, with various reports and statements beneath them.

“Can I trouble you for your arm?” John held up a blood pressure cuff.

Sherlock obligingly slipped his arm into it, with barely a glance in John’s direction. He was examining one of the photos with a magnifying glass.

Lestrade dragged a hand down his face. “God, how long have we been at this?”

“About an hour,” John said, watching the cuff tighten and release. “Have you… solved it? Cracked the case?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, fishing his arm out and looking extremely annoyed. “This is ridiculous. There’s no sign of someone having dug around to pull the shaft out.” He was focussing on a wound in one of the victims’ backs.

John peered at it. “It’s an exit wound. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock and Lestrade both looked at him, mirrors of one another.

John stared back. “Um. The wound. In that man’s back. It’s an exit wound.”

“How do you know?”

“The skin,” John pointed. “That’s exploded outwards.”

Sherlock blinked. “Lestrade, where’s the picture of the corpse from the front?”

Lestrade fished it out, and handed it over.

“No wound to the front,” Sherlock thrust it into John’s hand.

John pressed his lips together. “So, nothing went through him, which means…”

“Which means something burst out of him that was already there,” Sherlock slapped his own forehead. “Ow. Look – they were together, the two men, maybe they were hugging or something, I don’t know, but whatever was inside the first man is somehow triggered, and it shoots out of him and straight into the second. This steel bolt. That’s is. It has to be.”

“You mean some bloke’s been walking around with a bloody steel bar inside him like a… like a time-bomb?”

“Look into if and when he had surgery,” Sherlock sighed, flopping back against the pillows. “Someone planted a device inside him, perhaps using something that wouldn’t show up immediately…”

“The autopsy said he was blown to bit on the inside.”

“There you have it, then. Get them to look deeper. For tiny bits of shrapnel that don’t add up.” Sherlock shut his eyes. “That’s it. He was meant to die. Remains to be seen if the other man was a bystander. Might not have been. Would take some… investigating. Private life. Stuff.” He was drifting. His fingers were twitching on the sheets.

John checked his drip, and pressed a button on the machine for painkillers.

Sherlock instantly relaxed, and fell asleep.

Lestrade leaned over, and started collecting the pieces of paper. John helped him, sweeping everything into the folder, and checking Sherlock wasn’t lying on anything. The detective inspector stood and stretched, whilst John gently reclined Sherlock’s bed, and covered him over with a blanket.

“He gets cold,” he explained. “Even though he’s dressed, he… struggles to stay a good temperature.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s… obviously in good hands. When does he leave?”

“His respite care ends the day after tomorrow, and he’ll go home for a while, and then… come back when he needs to.”

Lestrade nodded. His mouth had gone very small and pinched. “Has he said where he…” he stopped, and cleared his throat. “I’d like to… if it was me… at home.”

“I can’t say, but wherever he ends up, our team will be with him,” John said, careful of Sherlock’s privacy. He looked down at him, at how small and pale he looked, so worn out from thinking, and yet clearly high on the enjoyment of doing it.

Lestrade followed John’s gaze. “He’s a good kid. He just… I wish I could turn back the clock, you know?”

John nodded. “He is a good person.” He checked the machine was locked off. “I’m… very glad to have met him.” It suddenly seemed very difficult to speak.

Lestrade cleared his throat again. “Well. Thanks. For getting me in, earlier. I’m sure we’ll… see each other again.”

John nodded, not trusting his throat to make the right noises.

“Oh, and… if you get tired of this lark… we’re always looking for talented blokes in Forensics,” the detective smiled. “Just something to think about. John.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock watched John’s fuzzy outline through the frosted glass in the door. He knew the man’s shape, by now. Short, round of head, a semi-prominent nose that wasn’t off-putting – it gave the face character. Sherlock watched from his bed as the doctor raised a hand and touched the back of his own neck. A nervous habit. Sherlock didn’t mind it.

The young man looked away as John’s blurry figure left the view of the window.

What would he have thought of John, if they had met when Sherlock was fit and healthy? Sherlock would probably have thought John an idiot. He _was_ an idiot, in fairness. Not so much as some people, but still… a sentimental idiot.

Sentiment…

Sherlock shut his eyes as a wave of pain coursed through his insides. It ebbed away slowly. Manageable pain, the specialist had called it. Pain you could deal with. To stop you becoming too reliant on pain-killers. Sherlock had just stared at her when she said that. He was an addict already. Morphine barely touched the sides, sometimes. Other times it seemed to knock him out flat. It was like an itch under his skin, on his bones, never reachable, always buzzing through him. It had gotten easier, that was for sure. But it would never go away. Not until he died.

Sherlock opened his eyes as John came in.

“You all packed?” the doctor nodded at the suitcase in the corner.

“Yes.” Sherlock sat up. “One of the nurses did it. I don’t know which one.”

“Your brother just rang, they’re stuck in traffic on the M25,” John said. “They’ll be another hour and a half, sorry.”

“That’s fine. I’m in no rush to get home.” Sherlock watched John’s face go through a series of quick emotions, like flicking through the pages of a book, before settling on understanding. If it was false, he was a terrific actor. “Is there any chance you could take me outside? Just for a cigarette.”

“Sure,” John smiled. “I’ll fetch a chair.”

Sherlock didn’t argue. There was no way he could walk to the lifts, today.

 

*

 

“What do you think happens when you die?” Sherlock blew smoke as he spoke.

John looked at him in surprise. “What… happens? You don’t mean medically, I’m guessing.”

“No.” He watched John cross his legs, and think. The doctor thinking was a very pleasing sight.

“I don’t know,” John said. “That’s my honest answer. I don’t know what I think. It’s difficult, because… I know what happens physically. I’ve seen it. And… if I ever believed in anything, it’s difficult to keep on believing it once you’ve seen someone… go.”

Sherlock examined his cigarette, and raised it to his lips again before speaking. “What happens when they go?”

John’s head turned.

Sherlock met his eyes. “I’m not afraid,” he lied. “I want to know. How it goes. In hospital, and at home. How is it different?”

John pressed his lips together, hard. Sherlock watched the motion, a soft ache in his chest at the sight of the doctor’s mouth betraying his feelings. He resisted the urge to copy the motion, to mirror it, as if he would be feeling the sensation of John’s mouth first-hand.

Eventually, John spoke. “It’s… alright. Well. In hospital, you’re constantly monitored. You get to decide whether you want a DNR or not –”

“I already have one.”

“I know. And if you have one, it’s…” John stopped, and looked away. “Sherlock, I don’t know if I can talk about this with you.”

“Why not?”

John didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the empty bird-feeders in the distance.

“John?” Sherlock suddenly felt trembly, and it wasn’t his usual sort of shakes, at all.

John took a steady breath in, through his nose. “Sherlock… I know I haven’t known you long, but… it’s hard for me to think of you as just another patient.”

The world hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks, but he stayed still. And said nothing.

“You’re brilliant, and stoic, and so… bloody… annoying,” John gave a small laugh. “And I like all of that about you. I’m glad I’ve met you. But I couldn’t be more pissed off about the circumstances.”

Sherlock realised his cigarette had almost burned down. He stubbed it out on the arm of the bench. “Yes, the circumstances do leave something to be desired…”

They looked at each other, and smiled.

John sighed. “I know better than anyone that everyone dies. But I really wish it wasn’t true.”

Sherlock nodded. “It… doesn’t feel real. It feels as though dying… isn’t what I’m supposed to do. And this wasn’t how he were supposed to meet.”

“Something went wrong,” John said. “In the universe, maybe. I don’t think you were meant to end up here, not really. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. But… it is.”

“Yes…” Sherlock looked over the doctor’s face. “I keep thinking something will happen, and I won’t have to die. Something will… save me.”

John’s face twitched in sorrow. “Sherlock…”

“I know it won’t,” Sherlock said quickly, the words digging painfully into his throat. “I know I’m going to die. But… it still doesn’t feel real.”

John stared at him, for what felt like a long time.

Then reached over, and took Sherlock’s hand. He held his fingers gently, in a warm grip that burning pleasantly into Sherlock’s skin.

“How about this?” John asked. “Does this feel real?”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt as if his chest might explode.

“You should know I don’t go around doing this with all my patients,” John said.

Sherlock laughed, the sound exploding out of him. “I – I didn’t think you did.”

“No, but you can see why someone might think…” John joined in the laughter, and they sat giggling in the garden, their hands touching lightly, the sound filling the empty space, frightening away the birds.

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. “This is stupid.”

“Yeah,” John said. “It is.”

Neither of them let go.

 _I’m going home in less than an hour_ , Sherlock thought as he stared desperately into John’s eyes. _I might never see you again. That’s a fact. I could die tomorrow and never look at your idiotic face again. Never feel your hand in mine. Never learn your secrets, never know what your favourite book is, or film, or find out where you grew up. I could die tomorrow and never know what made you be kind to me. I could_ …

Sherlock leaned up, and kissed John on the cheek.

John blinked, as Sherlock sat back. “I…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sherlock said quickly. “It was… I’d hate to die wishing I’d done that.”

John touched the spot on his cheek.

“You can’t catch it from a kiss,” Sherlock said.

John sighed, and dropped his hand down. “You think I’m worried about that?”

“Well… a lot of people would be.”

“A lot of people are idiots.”

Sherlock grinned. “On that we can agree.”

John gave a rueful smile, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek with a hand before leaning in, and planting a chaste kiss on his mouth. “And I would hate to die knowing I never did that.”

Sherlock clutched his wrist, afraid John would move his hand away. “This is all wrong. We don’t even know each other.”

“We…”

“We don’t have time to know each other, I know,” Sherlock said. “But… god, this is so fucking unfair.”

“It is.” John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “It really fucking is.”

They stayed like that, in that weird press, that almost-embrace, until John’s beeper went to tell them that Mycroft and Violet Holmes had finally arrived on the ward to pick Sherlock up.

“I don’t want to go,” Sherlock whispered. “If I go… I might – I might not ever…”

“Hey,” John squeezed his hand. “You asked me what I believed, yeah? I believe I’ll see you again. That’s what I believe. And you have to believe it as well. This isn’t goodbye. Not yet. I refuse to think that it is. I’m not losing you yet.”

 _Yet_.

It had to be said, Sherlock knew. But, for the first time, he found himself begging a god he didn’t believe in for more time.

As he was driven home, a pile of medication beside him and his wheelchair folded in the back of the car, he prayed to the sky, the clouds, the straight lines on the motorway, and the last image he had of John – waving professionally in his white coat as the car drove away.

That couldn’t be it. Sherlock made a fist, ignoring the fire of his joints. That wouldn’t be the last he saw of John Watson. He’d keep himself alive.

As long as he could.


	6. Chapter 6

The hospital felt empty, without Sherlock.

Someone else was in his room, someone else was on John’s list to monitor. There was always someone else, in this line of work. An endless procession of dying people, each one desperate not to leave.

A week rolled by.

Then another.

Then another.

John heard nothing from Sherlock. But that didn’t mean good news. He wasn’t Sherlock’s GP. He wouldn’t be told if Sherlock died, and he missed it. He had no access to Sherlock’s records now he wasn’t an in-patient.

And then came one of the worst week’s of John’s life. A sudden outbreak of a virus, affecting very young babies. The ward was suddenly packed – there was nothing they could do.

John lost three patients in the space of five days.

“You’re coming off,” his supervisor told him. “That’s enough for anyone. I’m sticking you on home visits for a few weeks, clear your head, ok?”

“Fine,” John rubbed his head. “I’m… thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The supervisor handed him the file. “You know this one, anyway. Holmes kid.”

John almost dropped the file. “Holmes? Sherlock?”

“That’s the one. Unusual name, isn’t it?”

“I mean – he’s alive.”

“Oh, yes,” the doctor smiled. “Doing quite well, in the circumstances. Doctor Tanner reports that he’s stable, and, though we obviously can’t prevent the inevitable, he’s as comfortable as he can be.”

John felt something like painful relief go through his bones. Sherlock was alive. Safe. That was good, wasn’t it? John could see him again. Talk to him. Maybe even hold him…

He tried not to wince at the pain in his chest. God, he’s been ignoring how much he wanted to hold Sherlock. Not just hold that fragile body in his arms, but the spirit, or soul, or electrical activity that made Sherlock alive… John wanted to hold onto that. Keep it safe. Keep _him_ safe.

He swallowed. “No… no change in his prognosis, then?”

“No,” the supervisor shook her head. “He’s terminally ill. We can’t cure him. If we’d caught it earlier, before it became… well. Yes. No point in the ‘could have’s, is there? His poor family.”

John just nodded, and thanked her for the file. He checked the schedule as he left the room. He was to visit Sherlock thrice a week unless requested to do otherwise, and to monitor him. Ask him questions, make sure he was taking his meds and staying as active as he was able.

John didn’t really know what to think.

What he waved goodbye to Sherlock, a month ago, he wasn’t sure the young man had it in him to keep going for much longer. And yet, here he was, still alive.

He’d seemed so ill, and so ready to die.

What had changed?

 

*

 

John drove to the Holmes’ London home the next day. There was, as he had predicted, no public space to park his car, though the hospital had issued him with a permit, so he gleefully pulled up outside the large white mid-terrace, and rather enjoyed the sight of his little red hatchback in between the glossy silver machines of the neighbours.

He rang the bell, and gave a smile at the man who opened it. “Hello, Doctor Watson to see Sherlock?”

“Ah, yes,” the man stepped back. “They said you were one of the new ones.”

“That just means I’ve got everything fresh in my mind,” John went in, and stepped out of his shoes.

“Hm. No wonder Sherlock likes you. He’s in the sitting room. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That’d be great, thank you,” John smiled. “You’re Sherlock’s… father?”

“Step-father, but yes, Dad, for all intents and purposes. You can call me Timothy. The boys have been a joy to watch grow up. Mostly…” he looked suddenly sad. “You know, they tell us there’s nothing we could have done, but –”

“People make their own decisions,” John said. “Sometimes they’re not good. But you can’t go back in time and change anything.”

“Quite. I did wonder, for a long time, if the family disruption…” Timothy twisted his hands.

John frowned. “I don’t understand, I’m sorry?”

“Mycroft and Sherlock are half-brothers,” Timothy lowered his voice. “And neither of them are mine. I know Sherlock didn’t take to his mother marrying again, and we’ve never been close, but I’ve always… he’s my lad, you know? Both of them are. I just hope…”

John patted him on the arm. “From what Sherlock’s told me, I don’t think you coming into his family was the cause of anything.” _He hasn’t mentioned you, truth be told_ , he added silently. “You clearly care a lot for him.”

“It’s such a damn shame,” Timothy hurriedly took his glasses off, cleaned them, and replaced them. “Such a waste… oh, I’ll sort that tea. Sherlock’s through there…” he trotted away, looking upset.

John watched him go, for a moment, feeling the weight of the sorrow in the house. What a ghastly atmosphere. He picked up his bag, and went through into the lounge, where a television was playing silently, the subtitles blaring along the bottom of the screen.

Sherlock was propped up on the sofa, asleep.

John stood still, and looked at him.

He looked ill, for certain, but no worse than before. There was a little colour in his cheeks, and the bags under his eyes were not so pronounced. One of his arms was out of the blanket, and John could see a few fresh bruises on the soft tissue, but that was to be expected. Sherlock’s soft curls were clean, and tumbled over his ears and forehead, framing his pale face.

It suddenly occurred to John that this was what Sherlock would look like when he passed away, and he leaned forward slightly, just to check he was breathing.

There was a clink of china, behind him, and a soft noise as a cup was put down.

Sherlock stirred, and his dad made an apologetic face at John.

John waved a hand to say ‘not to worry’, and the man sidled out.

Sherlock stretched, grimacing, and opened one eye.

“Hey,” John smiled at him. “Guess who?”

Sherlock groaned, and tried to sit up.

“Let me help you,” John gently lifted him into a better position and adjusted the cushions. In his arms, Sherlock felt very thin. “Better?”

“Mm,” Sherlock reached for a glass of water, and took a generous sip. “I… hello.”

“Hello,” John knelt beside the sofa. “You look really well, you know that?”

“So they tell me.” He sniffed. “I have a cold, today.”

“Oh,” John’s smile fell. For Sherlock a cold could be fatal. “What’re your symptoms?”

“Stuffy nose, slight heachache,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“Cough?” John took out his stethoscope, and motioned for Sherlock to lift his pyjama top, which he did.

“No cough. Just tired.” Sherlock’s chest was a mass of ribs and thin stretched skin. His nipples were a dark pink, and there were a dozen chest-hairs on his sternum. John mentally catalogued this as he listened to Sherlock’s breathing. There was no rattle, and he relaxed a little.

“Your chest sounds clear,” John moved to listed to the back, the lumps of Sherlock’s spine jutting eerily. “I think you’ve just got a little virus. I’ll have a check of your drugs…”

Sherlock pulled his top down and sat back again. “Thank you. I was hoping to be able to work today, but… fell asleep.”

“Work?” John looked at him.

“Yes…” Sherlock indicated the papers on the coffee table. “Lestrade dropped them off. I’ve been glancing at them.”

John picked one up. It was a case file, dated twenty years before even he was born. Cold case, then. With an ache, he realised this must be the detective inspector trying to get fresh eyes on cases that might never be solved. Sherlock would never be able to work on them properly. But he might say even one thing that made the other detectives think, or look at the case in a different light. Because once he was gone…

“Good that you’re keeping busy,” John put the file down.

“It’s all that really matters, now,” Sherlock said. “The work.”

“It’s all that matters?” John repeated.

“Yes.”

He looked away. “Right.”

Sherlock shifted under his blanket. “I’ve annoyed you.”

“No,” John shook his head, going through his bag. “No, you’ve not annoyed me.”

“Doctor Watson.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock.”

“John.”

John sighed, and looked back at him.

Sherlock’s eyes were shining. “You really want me to fight with you?”

John’s heart sank. “Of course I don’t.”

“Then why –”

“Because it’s hard, ok?” John perched on the end of the sofa, beside Sherlock’s legs. “It’s hard, see you trying to fit as much in as you can, and knowing that there shouldn’t really be room for me, and I get mad at myself for wishing there was room, and…” he threw his hands up a little. “God, you know, I hadn’t heard from you in _weeks_ , and I started to think…” he pressed a hand to his mouth.

Sherlock stared, his eyes wide, mouth pinched as he tried to hold back tears.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I shouldn’t expect… but we left things, and… I’ve thought about you every day.”

“You think I haven’t thought about you every day?” Sherlock touched his own bottom lip, tracing the ghost of a kiss. “I… I _hate_ it.”

John almost laughed. “You hate it?”

“I hate it,” Sherlock repeated. “I hate you, too. I hate how much I _want_ you when my illness is taking me away from you. I never thought… I never thought I could value another human being in the way I value you. But I do. And – and I wish I’d never met you.” Tears brimmed in his pale blue eyes, and spilled over. “I was ok with dying. I was ok, with dying, until I got to know you. I was ok with dying, until I knew I was leaving you behind…”

John’s heart shattered. “…what?”

“Everyone dies. Everything dies. It happens, it’s fine. I didn’t want it to happen to me so soon, because I thought I had more work to do, but I was just going to accept it. But, it’s different, now. I – I don’t want to die at all. I’m going to die, and you’re going to stay alive, and it’s so bloody unfair!”

John gave in. He leaned forward, and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, gently as he could manage, tears coming to his own eyes as he drew close to the man he desperately wanted – needed – to comfort. Sherlock pressed his head against John’s shoulder, and breathed snottily, his body trembling as he tried and failed to hold back emotions which must have been threatening to tear him in half.

“It’s ok,” John lied, weaving his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “It’s ok, Sherlock, I’m here…”

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” Sherlock gripped John’s shirt and clung on, tight. “I don’t understand. Why do I… Is this my punishment?”

“To want me?” John asked. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to think so. I certainly don’t see this as a punishment. It’s a privilege and a pleasure to be with you, Sherlock Holmes. I am… so grateful. That we have this time.”

“We hardly have any time at all.” Sherlock sat up, and grabbed a tissue to mop at his face. “And if anyone finds out, you could lose your job. I’m not worth that.”

“Worth? Sherlock, this isn’t about _worth_ …”

“It is, though. If you lose this –”

“Wait,” John interrupted. “Does anyone of your family know?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “I think Mycroft… suspects.”

“Would he say anything?”

“He’d be too worried about worsening my condition, I think.”

“Then… let’s not worry?” John took Sherlock’s hand. “The clock is against us. And even with the risk, how could you expect me to just carry on, now? I thought I might have lost you. I know I’ll never forget you. How could I ever just keep on living and forget you existed? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And…” John swallowed hard, “and I can’t believe it’s going to be over. If I could keep you here, with me, for longer –”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “If it happens – _when_ it happens – I don’t want you to stop it. Don’t you dare try and keep me here. Even if you think… Even if you think you might be…” he stopped, and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Please. Don’t keep me here for longer than I have to be. It hurts, John. It hurts, every minute. Even breathing. Even… you.” He looked at their clasped hands. “It hurts, and I don’t want to keep feeling it. The only thing I want to feel is… you. But that comes with the pain. I can’t have just you. No matter how much I…”

They kissed, then. A kiss made of heartache and dragging dread, and the knowledge that their future was so close, and it was to be so, so short.

“I want to run away with you,” Sherlock said, as their lips parted. “Not just out of this house. I want to run away from this reality. With you.”

John had no answer. He just held Sherlock close, and kissed his hair, and tried not to grip the young man in his arms too tight. He wanted to experience so much with this broken human. He wanted them to go dancing. To watch the sun rise in a country neither of them were born in. He wanted _time_. He wanted nothing – the comfortable quiet and peace and nothingness that comes from knowing you are loved, and in love.

Wait.

He wanted…

Was he…?

John had suddenly never been so afraid in all his life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter gets a little grim, medically.

Everything seemed very slow.

John’s visits. Meals. The endless dispensing of drugs. The empty-mindedness Sherlock employed when he was put into the bath. The aches, that started as a ghost of a pain, then swelled until it was unbearable, cresting so hard Sherlock would go rigid on the sofa-bed, then fading as the next dose of painkillers kicked in. His ‘meals’ had become liquid, thickened with a tasteless powder that gave everything – even drinks of juice and tea – the consistency of thick soup. Now and again, when the monitor on his thumb bleeped, he had a small tube clamped to his nose, blowing oxygen down his throat, helping his lungs to keep going. Sometimes, the fog in his left eye would condense so much that Sherlock struggled to see out of it.

Sherlock was down to one case file a day. His brain couldn’t think like it once did.

“Mummy,” he said one evening, “can you read this for me?” He had been trying to make sense of the words on the page for over an hour. The markings kept swimming around in his mind, refusing to stay still and make sense as they once did.

Violet came over, took it from him, and scanned it quickly. It was a simple report. Sherlock watched sorrow cross over her face before she pulled up a stool beside him. “Aloud?” she asked.

He nodded.

She put on her reading glasses. “… ‘The inclement weather made it difficult for officers to take a sample from the asphalt. Detective Inspector Dimmock reported that…’”

Sherlock let his mind wander. How long was it since he went outside? When did he last feel the rain? Had he felt the last rain he ever would, and no one had even told him to savour it? How dare they.

He was just waiting, now.

Waiting to die.

“Sherlock, sweetheart?” his mother touched his hand.

He blinked out of his thoughts. “…I’m sorry. I’m very tired. I think I need to go to bed.”

“Oh. Alright… Daddy isn’t back yet…” Violet looked worried.

“I’ll take you,” a voice came from the doorway. Mycroft stood, taking his coat off.

Sherlock scoffed. “I didn’t think you were up to carrying anything heavier than a cake box.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’ll risk the devastating injuries.” He bent down, and scooped Sherlock up, along with his blanket, princess-style.

Sherlock just let himself be picked up. He didn’t even have the strength to raise his arms to hold on.

“Straight to bed?”

Sherlock nodded, let his head loll against his brother’s chest. He smelled like the soft leather of his car, and faintly of something alcoholic. It wasn’t like Mycroft to drink outside of parties or events. Sherlock realised, as they started up the stairs, that his condition was affecting his brother, whether he chose to talk about it, or not.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, as they got into his bedroom, “…I don’t feel well.”

“I know.”

“I mean…very not well.”

Mycroft lowered him onto the bed. “What can I get for you?”

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. “An old age would be nice.”

Mycroft laughed, and it sounded like the worst sound in the world. “Sherlock, do you have to?”

“Yes.”

His brother smiled sadly at him. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes. “Anything I can find at the end of a phone?”

Sherlock considered. “I don’t know. I’m just so tired. I…” he pressed the heel of a hand to his eye. “I’m so tired of _waiting_. It’s horrible, just having to _be_ here, when it’s not… I just want a bit more… time.”

“Time.” Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought you said –”

“Time. I’m not finished yet. I’m going to… everything’s going to stop,” Sherlock let his hand drop. “Everything’s going to stop, and I’m going to stop, but I can’t.” He sighed, the broken pain in his throat twisting the sound into a sob. “I’m not done yet.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I can’t stop what’s happening. I just want to… delay it. But I can’t. And it _hurts_ …” Sherlock flexed his hands, feeling the bone-aches in his fingers. “But how can I… it’s just started…”

“Brother,” Mycroft reached, and took his hand. “Sherlock, I am so –”

“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” Sherlock groaned, but didn’t release the hand. “It’s not _fair_.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. Then when he spoke, it was very soft and quiet. “Is this about Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. “What?”

“Sherlock, don’t be coy with me.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I’m not. John… he isn’t what this is about.”

“But you started a relationship with him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not really. But I might have done. If…”

“So he _is_ the reason behind this low mood?”

“Mycroft, I am fucking _dying_ ,” Sherlock snarled. “And I didn’t care. I didn’t care I was dying, don’t you get how fucked-up that is? I didn’t care about being dead, about leaving Mummy, or you, or anyone else. I was just pissed off about being able to finish the work. But now… Now I know what I’ve been missing. What I will be missing.”

“…a relationship?”

“Love that isn’t _required_ ,” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft sat up. “You love him?”

“I don’t know.”

“He loves you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I mean… there’s all this potential. And it’s never going to be anything more. Just potential. No… love. No relationship. Just… me. Realising what I should have been looking for. Instead. I should have valued… all of it. The world. You. The people… I should have…”

Mycroft nodded. “I see.”

Sherlock shifted against his pillow. “You don’t like John, do you?”

“I think he’s making you sad,” Mycroft said. “And I haven’t seen anything to show me otherwise, yet.”

“Being sad isn’t the same as not being happy,” Sherlock countered. “He makes me… don’t keep him away, please. Please.”

“I won’t. It isn’t my intention to upset you. And besides, it doesn’t matter what I think. You clearly enjoy his company, and your wishes are all that matter, right now.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. “…thank you.”

“He’s coming tomorrow, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft let go of his brother’s hand. “I am sorry, Sherlock. I…should have…”

“Don’t start on that,” Sherlock sighed. “You can do the apologies once I’m on my death-bed.”

There was a cold silence.

“…you know what I mean,” he added.

Mycroft stood, and nodded. “Don’t say that quite yet, Sherlock. Not yet. Please.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “It’s not over yet, Mycroft. You’re not rid of me that easily.”

 

*

 

But the next morning, Sherlock knew.

He woke up early, before his alarm, and something like cold dread crept under his skin. His chest felt heavy, his breathing sticky. There was crusted snot around his nostrils, and his eyes stung at the cold morning air.

He swallowed, his throat so swollen he had to check how it felt on the outside, but moving his arms was so painful he cried out. He fumbled stiffly for the morphine-drip button, then realised it had dropped to the floor in the night.

“Mmm…” he clamped his lips together, then let them apart again as a cough clawed up his throat. His chest spasmed, and a rank taste of old mucous covered his tongue. He panicked, needing to sit up, to spit, but he couldn’t do it quickly enough, so swallowed, gagged, and turned his head just in time to vomit over the mattress and himself.

His parents chose that moment to burst into the room.

Timothy threw his covers back, chilling Sherlock immediately. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock started to shake. “N-no…”

“We heard you coughing, did it make you sick?” his mother helped him sit up.

“Yes. S-stop –” Sherlock reached weakly for the covers. “I’m cold…”

“Bugger…” Timothy stripped off his own dressing gown and wrapped his step-son in it. “Vi, I’ll run a bath.”

“Need my drip,” Sherlock managed to choke out, heaving again, but drily. “Need –” he started coughing again, the thick rattle making his mother cry, even as she turned up his painkillers.

“I’ll call the hospital,” Mycroft said, obviously awake, too.

“No,” Sherlock croaked. “They have to – send – a crew. Take me in. Call. Call the trust. And John.”

Mycroft vanished.

Violet began to stroke Sherlock’s hair. “Oh, Sherlock… Sherlock, this is just a bad morning, it’s alright…”

“It’s not,” Sherlock shook his head. “I had a cold.”

“Just a cold…”

“I can’t fight… it’s not a cold anymore,” he closed his eyes a moment. His ribs leapt with the need to cough, but his body didn’t have the strength to comply.

“You’ll be alright, love, you’ll be…” her voice broke.

Sherlock just listened to the thunder of bathwater filling up from across the landing. “Mummy.”

She wiped her eyes, and looked at him.

“When they come. They’ll ask you. If I should keep control. Of my drip,” he held the control up. “Addicts don’t usually. John argued for it. You have to let me. Keep it.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t tell me you’re going to do something foolish…”

“No,” he said, then coughed. And coughed. And coughed. “No, he sighed, leaning against her. Breathing in her smell, so familiar it reduced him to a child again. “But I don’t want pain. I know how much. Please.” He looked up at her. “You have to say you trust me.”

“Sherlock… The doctors…”

“You have to say you do,” he gripped her hand hard. “Even if you don’t. You tell John. And the trust. You tell them you trust me. And I promise. Not to.”


End file.
